grant my plea who stands alone
by Dialux
Summary: Four times women were hurt in the Harry Potter verse. Hermione Granger, after Malfoy Manor... Molly Weasley, on killing Bellatrix... Lily Potter, dream-lost mother... and Perenelle Flamel, giving her centuries-long life so Voldemort would be delayed by a year. What vengeance can be taken by women injustly wronged?


_Wind's four quarters, air and fire/ Earth and water, hear my desire,_  
_Grant my plea who stands alone/ Maiden, Warrior, Mother and Crone_

* * *

_Maiden_

* * *

Darkness, blowing over her soul. Pain, humiliation, shame… None dared stand before the relentless fury in her heart. All she'd wanted was a hand to her hand, a smile to her eyes.

Not this shame.

Not terror, not anger. Her friends stayed inches away, and she felt the boy _(man's) _worrying glance.

_I'm not breakable! _She wanted to howl before the full moon, baying her relentless fury to those who might at least give a damn.

For mortal revenge- blood, and death, and tears- would never be enough to fix the gaping chasm in her soul. Her enemies had ripped away the one thing she'd always had- her pride. They had torn it into ribbons, cast glances of _notgoodenough _and dared to pass judgment on something that was hers and hers alone.

The solid weight of a wand in her hand reminded her of the weapon she held. A weapon they'd tried to take away from her.

_Oh, Harry. _The thought was almost pitying in its intensity. _Did you think we would forgive? They have committed atrocities. And forgiveness is a sin to those undeserving. Let them pay._

_Maybe then I shall recover some of the pieces…_

Hermione Granger knelt in a forest grove, and dreamt of revenge.

* * *

_Warrior_

* * *

Molly Weasley was a good mother.

She wishes she could believe it, now, kneeling by her son's corpse _(such an _ugly _word, corpse) _and unable to feel the tears coursing down her face. Arthur's shoulders shake under the force of his sobs, cradling Fred's head in his lap but otherwise unmoving. Bill and Percy and George and Ron and Ginny are alright, some part of her notices through a blind haze of shock-turning-rage.

And Molly cannot find it in her to forgive.

So when she stands in front of the woman who has killed her son _(and maybe she didn't. But she's taunted you and broken _so many others _it hardly matters. You'll kill her and step on her ashes and nobody will ever call you anything but a hero.) _she raises her wand with the same madness that Bellatrix Lestrange is (_soon to be was) _famous for, and casts the last spell.

"Avada Kedavra," Molly whispers, fine as winter wind through weeping willows. Then she turns, and raises her wand to meet Voldemort's.

She has avenged her son's death. There is little else to fight for.

But Harry is there in a second breath, is fighting Voldemort, and no one notices the look of disappointment on Molly Weasley's face as she slowly steps down from the raised platform.

Before the battle, Molly Weasley was a very, very good mother.

Now, she is a killer.

* * *

_Mother_

* * *

Lily Evans was perfect.

All her friends will say, if asked, that she was always, _always _perfect. Looks drawn into elegance, words prim and proper, spells cast and smooth.

After all, she is a muggle-born. Being less than perfect makes her less than human. Sometimes... sometimes even being _perfect _isn't enough. Sometimes it is blood that makes all the difference, and when she sees her friends smile at a joke she doesn't understand the rage of _unfairness _beats through her.

_I will change the world, _she vows in the midnight-darkened silence of her dorm. _I will change the world and make it anew. Better. Fairer._

But the world is not fair.

And Lily Evans, for all her dreams and hopes, falls in love.

And that, is the beginning of the end.

Love, and then family, and then child. One by one, chains drawn and yanked, until she can barely breath for hemmed-in duty. And then she stands between her child and the monster of children's nightmares, and she _hates._

Voldemort cannot stand before her hate. Powered by grief, buttressed with lost hopes, and woven through with love, there is nothing Voldemort can answer to that clarion cry for justice.

_So Albus was wrong, in the end. _Lily thinks softly, watching as her son is taken to the woman who she hopes can protect him. _Love is _not_ the power Voldemort knows not._

* * *

_Crone_

* * *

Perenelle Flamel lay on her deathbed, and wept tears of silver.

Her husband died before her, peace and death erasing the beauty of his normal face.

_Seven weeks aged us seven years, _Perenelle mused in those heartbeats between death and life. _We are dead that lived for so long, and our enemies have been delayed a year._

_Was it worth all this, Albus? Was our ultimate sacrifice worth a single _year?

Nicolas thought so. But then, he loved so very easily. And trusted even easier.

Perenelle had been brought up on the streets. She knew better than most how easy it was to abuse that trust. Nicolas, her beloved, beloved husband, was dead beside her, and she could feel the way his hands grew colder with each passing breath.

_Unforgiven, vengeance laid. I am a crone that was once a mother and a warrior..._

_Fear your death, Albus. For I shall make it as painful as possible._

* * *

**Hi everyone!**

**This is a short one-shot about four of the greatest women in Harry Potter; the song at the top that inspired this is Heather Alexander's _Wind's Four Quarters._**

**Hope you enjoyed it!**

**Reviews inspire me...**

**-Dialux**


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